Nath & Sons Timepieces

Chapter 8: The Body Beneath the Spiral

Ishaan’s shoes squelched in the mud, right at the edge of some godforsaken patch of graveyard in Kalighat. He stared down at what looked like a grave, except nobody had bothered with a real tombstone. Just a slab of concrete, some half-hearted attempt at secrecy, all tangled up in moss. No name, no date, just this weird spiral scratched in the corner. Kinda lazy, if you ask me.

His fingers wiped off the grime. Boom—the red watch on his wrist started buzzing like a wasp trapped under glass. Not ticking, not anymore. It was humming, this low, weird sound, like the grave itself was singing backup.

He dug in. No shovel, just his bare hands. Dirt came away way too easy, like someone else had already been poking around. Six feet (or maybe less, who’s measuring) and then—clang. Metal. He yanked out this rusty box, chains and everything. Kinda dramatic, right?

Broke it open with a chunk of headstone (not exactly gentle) and inside? A pile of old letters, wax seals all cracked and dusty. One silver coin, covered in symbols—thirteen, which is never a good number. And then there was a watch. Black. Just like his red one—no numbers, no hands, nothing fancy, except it glowed this ice-blue color. Not moving, just sort of… waiting.

Underneath it all, a skeleton. Curled up, missing an arm, the skull split right down the middle. Nice. Real welcoming.

Narayan? Maybe. Or whatever was left after time had its way.

He froze. Footsteps—he swore he heard them, crunching on the dead leaves. Whipped around. Nobody.

Then he looked up.

Shadow at the edge of the grave. Face hidden.

The Faceless Man. Real this time, not flickering like some broken TV.

Ishaan scrambled out, clutching the black watch so tight it hurt.

The Faceless Man stepped forward. And when he finally spoke, the voice wasn’t his. It was Ravi. Which, honestly, is the kind of thing that makes your spine want to crawl out your body.

> “It doesn’t end with the watch.

It ends when you let go of the hour you never forgave.”

Ishaan actually shook. “What hour?”

The Faceless Man lifted his hand.

The world just—paused. Cemetery faded. Suddenly, he was in a hospital room. (Time travel? Hallucination? Who knows.) There was a kid in the bed, hooked up to wires. Ishaan’s heart did a weird little flip.

It was him. Twelve years old. And his dad by the door. Yelling. Leaving. Door slamming. Replay, rewind, repeat. The hour his dad walked out. The hour that broke the world, or at least broke Ishaan.

> “That’s when your loop began,” the Faceless Man said.

“And that’s when it must end.

The hospital shattered like glass, pieces flying everywhere. The red watch shrieked. The black watch glowed.

Both ripped out of his hands, spinning in the air, orbiting each other like angry planets.

Light and shadow twisted into a spiral, right above his head. For a second, everything just… stopped.

The Faceless Man reached out.

“One shot,” he said. “Pick the watch that holds your truth.”

Red or black.

Stay trapped or break free.

Ishaan’s hand hovered between them—

And then—